Fallen
by Lily and Shadow
Summary: Mello was a lot like a butterfly gone horribly wrong. Oh, he was beautiful, but rather than something gentle and frail, he became something fierce and untouchable. Companion to Inequity, Anomaly, Lost, name/series spoilers. EDITING & HIATUS
1. St Alodia

**A/N:**Hola. This is chronologically the fourth story in what I've taken to calling the "Wammy Boys" series. The order is Inequity (which isn't actually up yet, but will follow L), Anomaly (which follows Near), Lost (which follows Matt), then this one, which of course follows Mello. For anyone who may have already read the first two chapters of this, this is the revised version of chapter 1. I didn't think Mello's characterization fit his background very well, so I'm making some minor adjustments.

**Warning:**Spoilers for Mello's real name!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Death Note.

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_Fallen - (adj.) Having succumbed to an attack. Having succumbed to temptation or sin; having lost one's innocence._

* * *

Mihael had no idea where he was, only that he didn't like it. All he wanted was to go home. He knew he couldn't, but he wanted to. It hurt to think that he had no one to go home to. His father was gone. The one person who had always cared for him, always been there for him, who had loved him, he was gone. Mihael's mother had died when he was born, but far from blaming him Mihael's father had cherished him as the single greatest reminder of his beloved wife. And then it had happened. That one day that had changed Mihael's life forever. It had been almost three and a half years now.

He hadn't known his father was sick. The man had seemed a bit different and Mihael had known something was wrong, but whenever he voiced his concerns his father just brushed it off, telling him not to worry so much. Two and a half years Mihael had been gone, and in that time the cancer had come back and it had spread and his father had died. When they found him, when he was rescued, they told him what had happened and for the first time in years he had cried. They had told him he was alone, that his only family was dead, then they had packed him up and shipped him off to a psychiatric hospital in the southern part of the country. That had been nearly a year ago.

And now he was here, in an orphanage in a foreign country. He clutched his Bible to his chest as he was led up the steps into what looked like an old house. That in and of itself made him uneasy. And to make matters worse the place seemed to be fairly secluded with a high fence surrounding what he could see of the grounds. But when the doors opened and he saw a number of children running about the place he nearly fled. He would have fled had the woman escorting him not placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Warily he allowed himself to be led up a flight of stairs and down several hallways until the woman guiding him stopped. He noted that they stood in front of a wooden door with a little plaque on it that read Roger Ruvie. There was a door on the opposite side of the hall and down a bit that was open and he could see two people there, a woman and a very odd looking boy who immediately fell silent upon noticing his presence. There was only one other door, one with a plaque that read Quillsh Wammy, but that door was closed. He didn't have time to make any other observations about the place as the door in front of them opened and he was ushered inside.

The first thing he noticed was that the room felt just slightly claustrophobic, crowded as it was by bookcases and filing cabinets. In the centre of the room was a large wooden desk and behind that desk sat an old man. Mihael guessed that this was Roger Ruvie.

"Hello, there," the man said. He had a kind voice, but Mihael knew better than to trust appearances. He watched the man glance down at a file folder that lay open on the desk before retuning his gaze once more to the small boy before him. "You must be Mihael. My name is Roger. Do you speak English?"

Mihael hesitated a moment, debating whether or not to reply. When he finally did it was with a thick accent and not the slightest trace of the fear coursing through his veins. "Yes."

"Well that's a relief," the man, Roger, smiled. "Should make this significantly easier. I'm sure you're wondering what this place is."

The blonde boy nodded.

"This is a place for children who are above average," Roger told him. "We were made aware of your abilities. That is why you were brought here." He paused for a moment. "We know of your circumstances, too."

Mihael just nodded. He had only understood about half of what the man said and he wasn't completely sure he trusted these people. He would do as he was told for now, if only for fear of the possible outcome of disobedience, but the moment he felt the slightest bit threatened he would run. He was almost certain he could make it out and he would fight if he had to. He would not be a prisoner again.

"Well I'm sure that's quite enough to take in for the moment," Roger said as he rose from his chair. Mihael tensed visibly at the sudden movement. "If you want I can show you where your room is so you can get settled in before dinner. Adela can come too if it would make you feel better," he added, gesturing to the woman who had brought him in. He knew that the boy probably wouldn't trust him because he was a man. Having a woman with them might put him a bit more at ease.

Mihael shook his head. Having two of them there would make it more difficult to escape should it be necessary. Silently he watched Roger nod and turned toward the door.

"One more thing," Roger said, causing the boy to turn back around. "From now on you are no longer Mihael Keehl. You have a new name now. From now on you will be called Mello."

Mihael watched him for a moment, icy blue eyes betraying no emotion. Mello. He was to be called Mello.


	2. St Frances Xavier Cabrini

**A/N:**Hola. Revised version of chapter 2. Last of the revisions. Little explanation about the revisions. I wrote up a profile of Mello's captor then read back over this and went "Mello is taking this _waaaay_ too well." You'll see what I mean as the story goes on. Thanks for your patience. Also, the underlined stuff in quotes is Mello speaking in Polish. I don't speak Polish and I doubt that many of you do either, so it's in English to make things easier for all involved. And the King James version of the Bible is in Shakespearian English. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Nanairo Suishou for reviewing!

**Warning:**Name spoilers for Mello.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Death Note.

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The first thing Mihael, or Mello as he supposed he was now called, did when he was sure Roger was gone was wrench the mirror from the back of the door. It wasn't an easy task and he nearly dropped it, but he got it down. He then opened the door, ignoring his shock at finding it unlocked, and pitched the mirror out into the hallway as hard as he could, listening with a small amount of satisfaction as it shattered. He did not want a mirror in the room, did not want to see his reflection. He looked too much like all the others and he couldn't stand the sight of himself anymore.

The next thing he did was to sit down at the desk and read over a few of his favourite bible verses to calm his nerves. This Bible was one of his most prized possessions. The other was his rosary. He had come from a Catholic family and both of these things had been gifts. The rosary had been his mother's. His father had given it to him on his fifth birthday. He had said that Mihael should have it because that's what his mother would have wanted. He had never known his mother, as she had died due to complications in childbirth, but his father had always likened her to an angel. That was why Mihael had been given the name he had. It was the name of one of the archangels. The Bible had been a gift from his father on the last birthday they had spent as a family. It was in Shakespearian English and it had been a challenge of sorts. Mihael's father had known his son was brilliant, so he had begun teaching him other things besides what he was learning in school. Part of that was English and Latin. Latin because they were Catholic and English because his father insisted it would be useful someday. If only he had known how right he was.

Mello didn't feel like translating at the moment, so he chose the green lines of text over the blue lines or the printed lines. During his two and a half year captivity he had managed to procure pens in different colours and had spent most of his time translating the Bible into Latin and Polish, his native language. The following year in the asylum had been spent checking and rechecking his translations, since he had done them without any references.

Quietly he skimmed through the pages until he found the verse he was looking for. He could have recited it from memory in Latin or Polish – he could only read and write English fluently and still had trouble speaking and understanding – but he preferred to read it from the Holy Book instead.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," he murmured as he read. This verse wasn't his favourite, but it always made him feel better. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anoinest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

He finished the reading with a whispered "Amen" and closed the Bible before he set to unpacking his few possessions.

* * *

Mello found himself feeling more than a little apprehensive about dinner. The house and the children had brought back a multitude of unpleasant memories and the sight of his reflection had only made things worse. He couldn't repress a shiver at the thought of the meals he had been given during his captivity. The very thought nearly made him retch as the faces of several of the other boys came to mind. There was no way to rule out the possibility that the food was drugged, or poisoned, or worse.

Silently he resolved that he would go to dinner, but he would not eat anything. Mostly he wanted to get a better look at the house and see exactly what he was up against should he need to escape. He would have to be watchful, though, he reasoned, as he was already on the caretaker's bad side. That was because of the shattered mirror in the hallway. He had known it would be stupid to break the thing, but he had done it anyway and now he was seriously regretting his decision. Also, he wasn't sure if he could trust the other children. He had, on more than one occasion during his captivity, betrayed one of the other boys in order to save his own life.

Then there was the language barrier. He spoke Polish fluently and Latin very nearly so, but his English was broken at best. He could read the language with ease, but he didn't speak very well. He was certain he would have trouble communicating. He doubted very many of the children here, if any at all, would speak Polish and speaking to the adults was out of the question until he was sure of their motives. Latin, he reasoned, was a dead language and would therefore do him absolutely no good unless he wanted to spook a would-be attacker. It had worked before and he knew there was always a possibility that it would work again.

Finally he gathered his resolve and as quietly as he could he made his way down the hall to the stairs, trying to remember where the dining hall was. Once he finally reached the large room, however, he quickly changed his mind. There were too many people. He didn't feel safe there. He turned around and headed back to his room before he even made it across the threshold. The only good thing was that the corridors seemed deserted as he made his way back. He only ran into one person, that strange white haired kid he had seen earlier, and the kid seemed content just to ignore him.

He did see one other person, but he only caught a glimpse of them. All he saw was stripes and a pair of goggle covered eyes peering at him from beneath a mop of auburn hair in an open doorway down the hall, but when he blinked the door was closed and the kid was gone, leaving him wondering if he had even been there at all. Mello just shook his head and went into his room, closing the door on the rest of the world before turning once again to prayer.


	3. Raphael

**A/N: **Hola. Chapter 3. **Chapters 1 and 2 have been revised.** I know I said I wouldn't be updating, but I found myself suddenly inspired. I think I'm going to have nightmares tonight... Anyway, the _italics _are a dream sequence which, conveniently enough, doubles as a flashback to show a bit of Mello's past. The underlined quotation is Mello speaking Latin. I'm going to use the same format in all of these: _italics_ are flashbacks, **bold **is flashforward, and underline is another language. I'll be sure to give some indicator of what language is being spoken in the story itself. If you're horrified at the end of this, then that's great. I'll know I've done my job. If not, by the time Mello's past is perfectly clear you probably will be. And if the ending seems confused, it's meant to be. That said, on with the chapter.

Thank you to Con Fuoco, Nanairo Suishou, Mercury Killed the Cat, and Kaze Kimizu for reviewing!

**Warning: **This will be the last warning about name spoilers for Mello, because that should have sunk in by now. Also, this chapter contains some rather disturbing implications, so if it freaks you out or you think I'm completely sick or something, you've been warned. Flames based on the nature of the implications in this chapter will not be tolerated.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

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That night Mello was plagued once again by nightmares. He dreamed he was back in that hellish place with all the others.

_He could feel the fear of the other children and was nearly overcome by the stench of death. And there were eyes on him, all blue like his were, all young like he was, and all terrified like he felt. The sound of screams filled the darkness around them and he could barely hold himself together as he listened in horror and silently scanned the faces to see who was missing. Number Twelve. They would be fed tomorrow and the thought made him want to vomit. A lot of good that would have done him, though. There was nothing in his stomach to throw up except water and acid. Probably blood too at this point; it had been long enough since he'd eaten and he hadn't been feeling well. Then again, perhaps that was a result of the constant terror and the smell of the place._

_He was silent as the grave he would probably soon find himself in, trying his hardest to block out the screams of terror and pain. He would not eat whatever they were given tomorrow. He didn't care how hungry he was, he would not eat. Of course, he always said that, always steeled himself against the temptation of food, and then gave in because his hunger and survival instinct won out. But that didn't matter. He would not eat tomorrow. When he stopped and thought about the food he realized he would rather starve to death than eat what he was given, but he always ended up eating anyway and he was always sick afterwards._

_How many of the others knew, he wondered. How many of these little boys realized what was in that food. Any of the various unpleasant things. He resisted the urge to cover his ears as another deafening shriek rent the air. Did any of them know? If they didn't he wasn't about to tell them. He knew, but he would keep that bit of this hell to himself. And how did no one ever hear the screams? He knew this house was out in the woods, but surely it wasn't that secluded. Why had no one noticed?_

_There was another scream, this one much weaker than the last, and Mihael closed his eyes and began whispering in Latin._

"_Blessed Father, grant us salvation. Free your lambs from this wolf,__" he pled. But he got no further because at that moment the door to the other room opened and there was absolute stillness as the remaining children feigned sleep._

When Mello finally woke it was to the sound of his own screams. As soon as he realized the noise he was making, however, he bit down on his arm to stop the sound, leaving deep bite marks and a coppery taste in his mouth that nearly drove him to panic. But it was his blood, he reminded himself. His own that he had shed inadvertently in an attempt to silence himself. Merely his own blood and no one else's.

Immediately after he came to this realization he willed his heart rate and his breathing to slow even as frightened blue eyes darted back and forth to take in his surroundings. The window. There was moonlight streaming in through the big window that looked out over the moor. He was out. There were no windows in that place, so he was out. But that wasn't good enough. He couldn't see anything but woods from here so what assurance did he have that he hadn't simply been moved to some other prison? Silently he got up and went to the door. He was already dressed, as he slept in his clothes so that he would be better off in the case of an unexpected escape. It was a habit he had picked up during his captivity and one they hadn't been able to break him of in the hospital.

As one hand rested on the doorknob the other found his rosary and he murmured a quick prayer for protection before opening the door and stepping silently out into the hall. He had only made it as far as the stairs, however, when a man stepped out of the semi-darkness and blocked his path. Mello forced himself to remain silent as he slowly backed away, praying silently to God to keep him safe. Then there was a man's voice and arms around him and his resolve broke. Suddenly he was screaming and biting and kicking and clawing like a wild beast in his attempt to free himself and then the man was yelling and more people appeared and there was a stabbing pain in his arm as he tried to wrench himself away from them. Then everything grew dim and the world was gone.


	4. St Agatha of Sicily

**A/N:**Hola. Chapter 4. So about that whole "this is gonna be the last of these to be updated" thing. Yeah, that didn't happen. And chapter titles. H'ok, so, here's some explanation. I had intended for all the chapter titles to be Bible verses, just as in Near's story they're lines from children's rhymes and in Matt's they're city names. But that's not really working out so well. Perhaps I'll look up saints. The problem with that, though, is that while I've read the Bible twice, I'm not Catholic. I'm not even Christian. Therefore the number of saints about whom I have any knowledge is exactly zero. Unless of course you count the virgin Mary, but I do come from a Baptist family so I would know that one even if I hadn't read the Bible. Anywho, this is my second chapter of this in one day. I think I'm going to wait to actually post it though. I had to come up with a way to show the difference between writing and speaking because Mello can't make life easy, so 'writing' vs "speaking." And his English is broken, it's supposed to be like that. Also, those of you reading Anomaly should recognize a character in this chapter. And Mello's behavior at the end is driven by the fact that he feels threatened, if that's not obvious. Just don't tell me he's horrible or anything. And everybody who knows what Mello's issue with food is say "I". I'm just curious... On with the chapter.

Thank you to Kaze Kimizu for reviewing! And you're right, Mello does need a hug, though he would probably maim anyone fool enough to try to give him one.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Death Note.

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When Mello woke the first thing he noticed was a sharp pain in his upper left arm. Then a duller pain, more of an ache really, in his right forearm, and a headache. But when he finally opened his eyes all of that became secondary to the fact that he was surrounded by white. More than that, he had no idea where he was. He glanced at his left arm to find a bruise and a butterfly strip holding together the edges of a small, clean, straight cut. On his right arm there were bandages covering the wound, but he knew if he could see it he would just be looking at imprints of his teeth. What he was more concerned about was the fact that he had no idea where he was and the realization that he had been drugged.

Suddenly there was a face peering at him through the curtains around the bed he was sitting on. It was the face of a young man with dark hair, but as soon as it appeared it was gone. There were some softly spoken words in English that Mello was unable to hear clearly enough to even begin to translate them, and then a different face appeared, this time an old woman.

"Hello dearie," she said gently. Mello understood the first word, but the second confused him. He didn't dare let it show, though. The woman continued speaking and Mello gave her his full attention in the hopes of learning something useful. "Are you feeling alright?"

The blonde child didn't answer.

"Do you understand?" the old lady asked.

"Paper," Mello said quietly. "Please. To write."

The nurse nodded. Roger had told her who this child was and that his English may not be quite perfect. She felt sorry for the poor boy, though. Roger had probably given him quite a fright, surprising him like that. And in the dark, too. The poor child had fought so hard they'd had to sedate him and even so he'd broken the needle off in his arm.

She quickly found a notepad and pen and handed them to the boy, who wrote something quite quickly and held it out.

'I can read English.'

The nurse assumed from the way he had phrased it that he was implying he didn't understand spoken English very well, but didn't want to say so directly. She nodded and took the notepad to write a reply.

'I see. Are you alright?'

Mello glanced at the paper before scrawling furiously, 'Who are you?'

'I am a nurse. My name is Anne. I want to help you,' the nurse wrote back.

"I am called Mello," the boy said slowly and deliberately. He then turned his attention back to the notepad. 'What happened to my arm?'

'We gave you a shot and you broke the needle,' Anne replied.

"Where am I?" Mello growled, a sudden rage gleaming in his icy blue eyes, and even with his laboured speech the underlying threat was evident. They had drugged him and that marked them as a threat.

Anne was startled by his tone. The boy was only ten and already there was a murderous intent clear in both his eyes and his voice. Then again, considering what he had been through he probably considered this a matter of life or death. He saw everything as a threat and felt the need to defend himself.

'You are in an orphanage,' the nurse answered in her small, prim writing.

"Why?" Mello demanded.

'We have adopted you. This is your home,' she wrote back.

"Not my home," Mello snarled, the precision of his speech sacrificed for speed of reply. "My home in Poland. With Father. My father is dead. No home. You lie! What is this place? What you do to me?"

"Shhh," Anne shushed. When Mello merely growled in reply she took the notepad back and wrote, 'Roger heard you screaming. He wanted to make sure you were alright. He saw you in the hall, but you ran. He picked you up, but you fought. He called for help and one of the nurses gave you a shot to make you sleep. We do not want to hurt you. You were fighting. We were afraid you would hurt Roger or yourself.'

"What is this place?" Mello demanded once more. At least this time some of the tension seemed to have eased from his small frame.

'It is a home for very smart children who have no home of their own,' Anne told him.

"Because Father is dead?" Mello spat harshly in that same slow, deliberate speech.

"Yes," Anne replied as gently as she could. 'You live here now. We will not hurt you.'

The boy's eyes narrowed and he glared at her with such an animalistic rage that she nearly took a step back when he hissed, "Lies! You will kill me."

"No," Anne countered shaking her head. 'We want to help you.'

Mello let out an inhuman growl and this time Anne did take a step back because the boy lunged at her, hands out as though he meant to strangle her. Her yelp brought three other nurses running and, despite Mello's small size, it took all three of them to restrain him. And for the second time since his arrival the boy felt a needle pierce his arm and watched the world fade away.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:**Hola. Chapter 5. Well, I have a complete profile and MO writen up for Mello's captor, complete with a name and some rather distinguishing habits. All I need now is an "alias", a press name like "BTK" or the "Zodiac Killer" or the "Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run". Something to make him sound more ominous, although I think his name alone does a pretty good job of that. I'll give his name next chapter, provided I have a press name figured out by then. And Mello's eating habits, or lack thereof, should make a bit more sense after this. Also, feedback please? It helps me know what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, whether or not I've lost anyone to the horror-factor yet, that sort of stuff. On with the chapter.

Thank you to ClOuDs-N-rAiNbOwS for reviewing! Very good with figuring out Mello's food issue, by the way.

**Warning:** Just some disturbing implications like in chapter 3.

**Disclaimer:**I do not own Death Note. I would have gotten so caught up in the history of the Wammy's Boys that I wouldn't have gotten the actual series written.

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When Mello opened his eyes again he found that he could not move. This, he soon realized, was because of restraints on his wrists and ankles. In silent panic he tried to throw off the fog hanging about his mind in the wake of the drugs so that he could think of a way out of this. He'd made them angry and now they were going to kill him. And he wondered if the same fate would befall him here as what would have happened had he been killed back in that hell-hole. He could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought. Slowly faces swam across his memory and he tried to force them away. But they wouldn't go and it seemed the more he tried to convince himself it wasn't his fault, the stronger they became. Then Number Twelve appeared, the one who had been screaming in his nightmare, and he vomited onto the white sheets and tried to curl up on his side.

Silent and unwelcome tears ran down his face as the bile burned the back of his throat and he nearly screamed when one of the nurses touched him on the shoulder. Of course, being restrained, he couldn't hit or kick or claw. He couldn't defend himself at all and the idea left him frozen in terror. What would they do to him? But much to his surprise he was freed from his restraints and handed off to a small group of assistants while the sheets were changed and somebody wiped his face down with a cool washcloth, although he tried to bite the hand of whoever it was, and then he was put back to bed and restrained again. And nothing else happened. No harm befell him at all. The people holding him had seemed a bit wary of him, but they had not threatened him.

Mello figured it was some time in the evening, judging by the sun through the window, when someone brought him a tray and freed him from the restraints on his wrists. The orderly then backed away as though he thought he might be attacked. As it was he barely managed to notice Mello's eyes widen in time to duck the bowl of applesauce that came flying at his head.

"Who?" the boy shouted at him, a deadly venom in his voice that should not have been possible for a ten year old. And then he was struggling against the rest of the restraints, but no one came near him. They simply watched him, allowing him to wear himself out sufficiently before anyone dared to approach him. When they finally did he hissed, "You poison me! Who?"

This was met with a general look of confusion and finally someone was sent to get the boy's file from Roger. When the man who had been sent to retrieve Mello's file, the one at whom the boy had thrown the bowl, returned, the small group of three nurses who still hovered near Mello's bed read over the document with wide eyes, which were turned on the boy as soon as they finished reading. In the mean time, Mello had tipped the rest of the tray onto the floor and was tugging at the rest of the restraints that kept him from attacking anyone else. His records explained why he wouldn't eat, but now the problem was how to go about correcting that.

"No one," one of the nurses, this one a young woman, told him. "We wouldn't do that here. We won't drug you unless you fight."

At her words Mello reached for something on the table and the nurse tensed, preparing for violence, only to have a notepad and pen thrust at her.

"Write please," Mello said sharply.

Of course, the woman thought. He didn't speak English very well. So she wrote down everything she had said and read it to him again. He responded to this with a look of suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

"I do not believe," he said.

Meanwhile, someone else had brought another bowl, just chicken broth this time, down to try to get Mello to eat. He handed the bowl to the nurse and gave her a spoon before also handing Mello a spoon. The young nurse got the idea.

"See? Look," she said, and took a taste of the broth.

Mello's small face contorted in rage and he hurled the spoon at her and shouted, "Devil! Who?"

It didn't matter that she had proven the food was not drugged. That wasn't his biggest concern. There were worse things to be forced to eat than poison, after all. Once again he was tugging at his restrains and they all simply backed off and let him wear himself out. There were more whispers that he could not understand and when they seemed to think he was tired enough they approached again. But this time he was ready for them and they hadn't counted on his ferocity. Nevertheless, they managed to restrain him. It was quickly becoming clear that the road to this boy's recovery was to be a long and gruelling one for all of them.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hola. Chapter 6. I've been working on this way more than I should right now, homework considered. But that's alright. I'm practically nocturnal anyway, not to mention a bit of an insomniac. This is what, the third chapter today? Don't expect that to happen often. Anywho... Enter Eira, councillor extraordinaire (perhaps not quite the right word) who has managed to get even _Near_to talk. Ah, mind games. Not that she would try anything much on these kids. She's smart enough to know she'd lose. Anyway, I do see Mello as the type to be musically inclined. Not, perhaps, in the sense of listening to music frequently, but I can see him as a pianist. Actually, he's the only one among the group I can see as a musician. Maybe L, perhaps, but Matt lacks the necessary motivation and Near lacks the intensity and emotional extremes Mello seems to so effortlessly manage. And Rachmaninoff, for the record, rocks, as do Chopin and Liszt. Joplin, though, is among my favourite composers ever, right after Mozart. I have a thing for ragtime, what can I say. I'm a pianist myself, by the way, in case you didn't catch that. It can be quite therapeutic, though I still prefer writing or pointe. And I introduce Mello's kidnapper in this scene, indirectly. His name is given. And some of you are probably going to call me on the Red Forest thing, but I'll explain. And brownies to anyone who can figure out where his name came from. (Hint: two sources. The first should be pretty easy, the second not so much.) And people seem to be catching Mello's food weirdness, which makes me happy. That means I'm getting the point across. And thus ends the first full day of Mello's stay at Wammy's. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Kaze Kimizu and Nanairo Suishou for reviewing! And thank you Nanairo for the well wishes. I have been feeling a bit better these past couple of days.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note. I _do_ own sheet music for a number of Scott Joplin pieces, _The Entertainer_ included...

* * *

Later that same evening Mello found himself moved to a chair, still restrained. In another chair on the opposite side of the small space blocked off by the curtain sat a woman who appeared to be in her mid thirties with pin-straight blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She watched him curiously, a slight hesitation evident in her actions as though she was dealing with a wild animal rather than a child, though it was easy to see where that impression came from. Mello was staring daggers at her from where he sat, unable to move. Still, she had been in contact with the boy's previous therapist and from what the woman had said this was a vast improvement over a year ago.

She had realized without ever even meeting the boy that this would not be a case she could handle on her own. As such, she had taken every possible measure to ensure that she had the support of the Polish institution where the boy had been kept for the last year. The case he was a part of had been of particular interest to her as a psychologist. Vladislav Rostov was an absolute monster and she couldn't help but wonder what had turned him into that, or what effect his actions would have on his victims. Never, though, would she have thought that she would be counselling one of the survivors. And yet here he sat, right in front of her; one of the five survivors of the Red Forest Killer.

"Hello, Mello," she said warmly once he had stopped fidgeting. Immediately she knew she had his full attention and found his gaze rather unnerving. Fortunately, she had already written out the first thing she wanted to say to the boy and it was just a matter of letting him read it. She read along out loud to help him learn to associate the words with their pronunciations. It was something they had all agreed to do when working with the boy. "My name is Miss Eira. I'm just here to talk to you. I've spoken to Ms. Tekla, your councillor. She's told me quite a bit about you."

Mello just stared, defiantly refusing to speak. That, however, was something Eira could deal with. After all, she had been working with Near for almost a year now. Besides, the Polish councillor had told her that Mello loved anything to do with classical music and piano.

"I know you don't know me, so why don't we start off simple," she said calmly. "Tekla said you liked classical music. Do you like Rachmaninoff?"

Mello hesitated for a moment, then nodded. What harm could it do to let her know that?

"You play the piano," she observed.

Mello's eyes widened just slightly and Eira smiled.

"I can tell by looking at your fingers." She wrote something down and then held up own hands. "See my fingertips? I play too. My favourite composer is Mozart. Who is your favourite?"

Mello watched her for a moment as though debating whether or not to answer. Finally he seemed to relax marginally. "Liszt."

Eira smiled. "His compositions are beautiful. Interesting, too. You have good taste in music."

Mello stared at her for a long while, seeming not even to blink, before he spoke again. "And Chopin."

"I'm not familiar with his work," Eira admitted. "Perhaps tonight I'll have to see if I can find any of his compositions."

Their conversation continued in this manor for the better part of half an hour, covering Bach, Pachelbel, Beethoven, and a great many of the other legends of classical piano until finally Eira asked, "Mello, have you ever heard ragtime piano?"

Mello cocked his head to one side so that his blonde hair lay across his shoulder. His face was much more open and his posture was much more relaxed now than it had been when their discussion began.

The councillor smiled. "I'll take that as a no. So you've never heard Joplin?"

The boy shook his head.

"I'll bring a recording of some of his work tomorrow when we talk. I think you'll like _The Entertainer_," she said. "Keep out of trouble until then, alright?"

Mello nodded, still seeming wary, but Eira could tell the boy wasn't quite as afraid of her as he had been when she had first entered the room.

Once Eira had gone a different woman appeared. This time it was the old nurse, Anne. She approached him with caution and Mello noted that this time she was not alone.

"Hello, dear," she said, just as warmly as she had the first time they had met. She spoke slowly to accommodate Mello's lack of familiarity with spoken English. "We are going to take you back to your room for the night. You will be more comfortable there."

Mello merely nodded. This time he didn't fight when he was released from his restraints. After all, there were four of them and he was exhausted. He'd probably gotten himself into enough trouble today as it was. It was better to simply play along. For now, at least.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hola. Chapter 7. Yep, Mello plays piano. I think that might be useful later. So I think I made a mistake when I introduced Eira in Anomaly. The difference with that story is that she had already been working with Near on and off for two months before she was introduced, whereas in this story I show the first time she meets Mello. Also, she's taken some precautions with Mello. She knew nearly a year ahead of time that he would be coming to Wammy's, there were just extenuating circumstances that prevented his transfer at that time. Near was more of an immediate case. And the bit with people in the hall at the beginning will be better explained in Anomaly and Lost when I get there. And it is possible, with practice, to learn to control one's breathing and heart rate. On a completely different note, I want to see if anyone can guess where the name "Vladislav Rostov" came from. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Kaze Kimizu and Nanairo Suishou for reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

* * *

Mello quickly discovered several things upon being returned to his room. The first was that he could not open the door from the inside, which immediately sent him back into his memories. His mind was running scenarios even as he made other observations. He had bruises from fighting the restraints they had placed on him, his arm was still bandaged where he had bitten it, and he still had a slight headache and a bit of nausea from the sedatives they had dosed him with. Meanwhile, he had realized that, if necessary, he could get out through the window. He was only on the second floor, so he wouldn't be too badly injured by the fall. However, the window did not appear to open, so he would have to break it if he were to escape that way. Having made note of all of these things, he finally settled down to sleep.

* * *

The next morning Mello woke from his troubled sleep to the sound of footsteps in the hall. Immediately he slowed his heart rate and his breathing so that if he closed his eyes he would appear to be sleeping. But the footsteps did not stop at his door. Instead they continued farther down the hall and he heard a man's voice say, "Near."

There was a brief conversation following the odd declaration, but he couldn't hear enough to gain anything from it. Then the footsteps continued down the hall and around, stopping at two more doors. The last door was the one next to Mello's, and the blonde heard a loud knocking. Again there was a muffled discussion and all Mello managed to learn was that the boy in the room next door was called Matt.

Shortly after the heavy footsteps retreated, another lighter set caught the blonde's attention. These stopped at one door down the hall and were accompanied by a woman's voice. Then there was a knock on his own door and the sound of a key in the lock. As the door opened, Mello closed his eyes and willed his pulse and breathing rate to remain steady in the hopes that whoever it was would go away.

"Mello?" No such luck. The blonde opened one eye just enough to see the woman at the door. It was the woman from the day before who had introduced herself as Eira and talked to him about composers. Immediately his eyes snapped open and he focused on her with an intense stare, pleased to see the hint of a startled expression that flashed briefly across her countenance.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said, even though she realized he probably hadn't been sleeping.

Mello just looked at her. It was early and she was speaking too quickly.

Realizing her mistake, Eira paused. It took her a moment to remember the phase she wanted, but she had spent the better part of the last year preparing to deal with this case. Part of that had involved learning some basic Polish.

"Good morning," she recited slowly with a heavy British accent. She knew the phrases in theory, but she hadn't really had much practice speaking. "How are you today?"

Mello seemed startled at hearing her speak his language, but replied anyway. "I'm well. Why are you here? What do you want?"

This time it was Eira's turn to look confused. Mello's Polish didn't sound like what she had learned, but that was probably because he was a native speaker, she reminded herself. He probably had the same problem listening to her speak English.

Mello, however, had caught on to the fact that she had not understood him. "Why are you here?"

"To make sure you are alright," she said, slowly this time so that he would have an easier time understanding her.

"Yes," he replied sharply. He still had a headache and everything they had given him yesterday combined with his lack of food had left him feeling weak, but he wasn't about to volunteer any information that could be used against him.

"I brought you this," she said, handing him a small tape player with a cassette in it from a bag she had set next to the door. "Remember I mentioned Joplin? This has _The Entertainer_ and _the Maple Leaf Rag_ on it. And this." She pulled a green apple from the bag and handed it to him as well. "I was told you have not eaten since you've been here. I thought you might be hungry."

He set the tape player down and took the apple, turning it over in his hands several times as though making sure it wasn't poisoned. Finally he held it up and asked, "Can I wash?"

Eira grinned. He still didn't trust it completely, but at least it seemed like perhaps he could be persuaded to eat _something_. "Of course."

He nodded and allowed her to lead him down to the kitchen where he spent a good ten minutes scrubbing the fruit before he seemed satisfied. He then spent another couple of minutes inspecting it again, this time seeming to be checking for any breaks in the skin that might indicate it had been tampered with. Eira, however, had anticipated this and had already checked it over herself. If she meant to gain his trust she would have to be extremely careful. This was part of that. She knew he was suspicious of any food he was given, partially because of the nature of what he had been fed in captivity and partially because Rostov had drugged the boys on numerous occasions. Because of this, she reasoned, some sort of fruit with a skin that would make any sort of tampering evident would be the best thing to give him. Also, she had chosen a green apple instead of a red one simply because of the connotation of the colour. She had been rather upset with the infirmary staff the previous day after she learned they had tried to feed him chicken broth. Tekla had made it quite clear that Mello refused to eat any sort of meat. She couldn't say she blamed him.

Eira watched him take a small bite of the apple, chewing it slowly as though trying to discern if there was anything wrong with it. Finally he seemed to accept that it was safe and he practically inhaled the rest of it. It almost seemed as though he feared it would be taken from him. That was another thing she had been warned about. It was difficult to convince Mello it was safe to eat and because of the conditions he had faced during his two and a half year captivity it really didn't bother him to go several days without food. Once he had been convinced to eat, however, Tekla said he often acted as though he thought someone would take the food from him.

Still, Eira was pleased. It was only the morning of his second full day at Wammy's and already he was making progress. It was small and to most people this would hardly seem like progress, but she had spent quite a bit of time familiarizing herself with this case. It had taken nearly a year before Mello had been deemed psychologically stable enough to handle being transferred and even so there was still a great risk involved and much work to be done. She had feared there would be serious setbacks as a result of yesterday's incidents, especially after the boy had lunged at Anne, but it seemed that perhaps there had been less damaged done than she had feared. She still intended to keep Roger away from the boy, however. She had been informed of that incident and the boy was distrusting of men as it was. It would probably take months before the caretaker would be able to get anywhere near Mello after what had happened the first night.

Mello watched her while he ate, wondering what she was thinking about. She had said she knew Tekla. That meant she probably knew a great deal about him. And about Rostov. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. If she knew that, she would probably know how to intimidate him. He didn't like to admit it, but it could be done. But then, she probably also understood why he had tried to run the first night. So then why had she let them keep him locked up? But she seemed harmless enough. Still, one should never trust appearances. But she had given him something to eat that wasn't drugged and didn't… wasn't… he didn't want to think about it.

Once the apple was gone Eira took him back up to his room. She then told him she wanted to talk to him later before leaving. He noted, though, that when she closed the door, she didn't close it all the way. Mello was glad. It let him know he wasn't confined and that made him feel a little better. With that thought he turned to his Bible. After all, it was only right to give thanks for the little things because it was those things that meant the most. He had woken up this morning to sunshine, he wasn't confined, and he had been given food that was not drugged and was in no way human, and he thanked God for all of that.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:**Hola. Chapter 8. Ok, when I started this chapter I hated it, but now I think it's my favourite so far. I cried when I wrote the end of it. I'll leave it at that. And for Nanairo, who looked into Vladislav Rostov's name, you're on the right track. He's named for two people, actually. For Vladislav, the historical figure is more commonly referred to as 'Vlad'. There's a novel inspired by him. And Rostov is a city in Russia. Try going to crime library .com and looking under serial killers, the first page. (Because I love puzzles, so I can't just make things simple.) And I know what you mean about eating meat. Today I had meat for the first time since I started rewriting this, and I just kind of stared at it for a while before I finally ate it. That's about all I have to say on this chapter.

Thank you to Kaze Kimizu and Nanairo Suishou for reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** I do no own Death Note.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Mello left his room. He did not go to lunch, as he had already eaten today, but wandered the halls instead. He kept to the second floor, starting with the hall his room was in. It seemed there were five people besides him staying there, three boys and two girls who shared a room. He had no intention of meeting them, however. It still didn't seem like a good idea to get close to anyone. His only objective was to get a feel for the place. So when he found himself face to face with another boy about his age he wasn't sure whether to run or act like nothing was wrong.

Mello froze when the door opened, praying not to be noticed, but he realized he was rather visible since he was standing in the middle of the hall. The red haired boy paused in the doorway and watched him curiously. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the boy spoke.

"Who're you?" he asked, sounding almost bored.

Mello didn't understand the question, so he remained silent. When he didn't respond, the boy took a couple of steps towards him and he tensed visibly.

"Little jumpy?" the boy inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Again Mello didn't answer.

"Do you speak?" the boy asked.

This time Mello understood enough to answer. "I do not speak English well."

The boy grinned. That explained a lot. "That's one heck of an accent you've got. Sounds cool, though. Kinda makes you sound like a mob boss." He caught the look of confusion the blonde was giving him and slowed down. "Sorry. My name's Matt. What's your name?"

There was a long pause before Mello answered. He wasn't sure if he wanted this boy to know his name. He really didn't want to learn anyone's name. Names made them seem more human. If you knew their names, you got attached, and that just made everything harder. Finally he decided to answer anyway. It was more because of the way the boy was staring at him than anything else.

"I am called Mello," he said with a great deal of hesitation.

Matt's eyes widened a little. "You're the new kid who lives next to me. So you're the one who… Sorry. Won't go there. Hey, watch out for Roger."

"Roger?" Mello said, suddenly nervous. That was the caretaker's name. "Why?"

Matt dropped his voice. "He –"

"Matt! What are you doing?"

Mello turned around to see Eira coming down the hall. She looked stern. "Don't feed him lies. Remember what I told you?"

Matt glanced at Mello and saw the fear in his expression. Quietly he glanced from the frightened blonde boy back to Eira and immediately wilted under her disappointed stare. That look, she had learned, was the best way to get Matt to listen. Disappointment was the one thing that got to him, aside from actual physical violence which no one would ever use against any of the children here. As much as Matt seemed to be a trouble-maker, he was eager to please. She suspected it had something to do with him having been repeatedly abandoned.

"Sorry," he said, shoulders hunched and head down. "Sorry for scaring you Mello."

With that he slunk back to his room and shut the door. Eira sighed. She hated seeing him like that. He reminded her of a kicked puppy. But Matt was at least relatively stable now that he had realized he wasn't going to be abandoned again, and she really couldn't have him traumatizing Mello.

"Come on, Mello," Eira said.

But Mello didn't move. "Where?"

"My office," she told him. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Why should I watch out for Roger?" Mello asked, sounding nervous.

"Is that what Matt told you?" Eira said. "Roger will not hurt you. Matt has been known to cause trouble, so he doesn't like Roger."

"Why?" Mello repeated.

"Because Roger is impatient and he yells at Matt when Matt is disruptive," Eira told him. "He's harmless, just a little strict."

Mello nodded, seeming unsure, and followed her down the hall.

Eira noticed how nervous Mello looked and asked, "Did you listen to the tape I gave you?"

Mello cocked his head to one side in a silent question.

"The music. Did you listen to it?" she clarified.

The boy nodded.

"Did you like it?" she asked.

Again he nodded.

Eira paused for a moment and Mello watched her curiously. She glanced back at the child behind her, an idea forming.

"Mello," she said. "When was the last time you played the piano?"

Mello thought for a moment. "Two months."

"Would you like to play?" Eira asked.

Mello's expression didn't change, but she could see his eyes light up at the suggestion. He nodded.

"I have some music in my office," she said. "And there's a piano downstairs."

Eira was thrilled to see the tiny smile that appeared on Mello's face.

"Alright," she said. She led the boy through the winding hallways to her office where he stood at the door as she retrieved a stack of music. Then he followed her downstairs and through a series of hallways to a room he had not known was there. There were various instruments around the room including a harp and string bass and what appeared to be a tuba. In the centre of the room was a baby grand piano. Mello paused in the doorway and just stared at it.

"Go ahead," Eira urged, smiling as the boy settled in front of the instrument. She pulled a chair up next to him and leafed through the music she had collected from her office. Mello stopped her when he spotted the Tempest Sonata by Beethoven. She handed him the piece and he set it on the stand and watched her, seemingly for confirmation that it was alright to play.

She nodded and he set his fingers on the keys. He was hesitant for the first few bars and she began to doubt that he would be able to play it. After all, it was the original arrangement. But then something seemed to click and he seemed more comfortable. Suddenly he appeared to be lost in the music, not a note missed or an accent out of place. Eira was impressed to say the least. It was more than just the notes and the dynamics and markings of the piece, though. It was the first time she was seeing the boy show an emotion other than fear. It wasn't so much that his expression changed, it was in the music. He almost seemed to forget she was there.

When the piece finally came to an end, he let his fingers linger on the keys a moment longer before looking over at the councillor. There was something in his expression that hadn't been there before. He was remembering something, but it had nothing to do with his captivity.

"You play beautifully," Eira said. "Who taught you?"

Mello was quiet for a moment. "My father. This song is his favourite."

Eira was silent. So that was why he was so eager to play. "You miss him, don't you?"

Mello nodded and looked down at the keys.

"What happened to him?" Eira asked gently.

Again it took a moment for the boy to answer. "He was sick." He paused, trying to remember the word. "Ca… I can write."

Eira nodded and handed him a pencil with which he wrote the word on the edge of the last page of music. 'Cancer.'

"I'm so sorry," she said.

Mello stared at his hands a moment longer and then spoke again. "When he die, I was gone."

It took Eira a moment to process what he meant. Then it clicked. His father had died before Mello was rescued. She resisted the urge to hug the boy.

She was still trying to find the right words to comfort him when he asked, "Can I play again?"

Eira nodded and handed him the stack of music to look through. "It reminds you of him, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Mello nodded.

Eira nodded. That made sense and allowing him to play would probably help more than anything she could say.

"I found a piece by Liszt for you," she told him. "You said he was your favourite."

Mello looked at her, watching her expression for a moment, and then said, "My father was good man. He is with God."

Eira was shocked for a moment, then her expression softened. "Yes. I'm certain he is."

Mello nodded and set his hands once again on the keys and began to play. They stayed in the music room for a little more than an hour, though nothing else was said. All the while Eira just watched the boy lose himself in the music and his memories of when life was better.


	9. Plebejus Agriades aquilo

**A/N:** Hola. Chapter 9. Ay, it's been a long week. I have finals today and tomorrow. But this is my last week of school! Anyway, for those of you who read the last chapter immediately after I posted it, I changed the piece referenced. My first thought was to use the _Tempest Sonata_, but then I figured not as many people would know it, so I changed it. Then I thought about it for a while and ended up changing it back. That's about it. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Nanairo Suishou and Kaze Kimizu for reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Death Note.

* * *

The following days were interesting as Eira and Mello got to know each other better and the councillor slowly gained the boy's trust. She could get him to eat a few things like apples, pears, and peaches because it would be obvious if she had tampered with them and she was working on getting him to trust the food at meals. They met every day to talk, just as she had met with Near every day after he finally opened up and started talking. Rather than meeting in her office, however, they met in the music room. Their sessions were largely centred around the piano and Eira used the music as a means of getting Mello to open up to her. It seemed to work quite well.

"Here, try this one," Eira said, handing Mello a copy of the _Maple Leaf Rag_by Joplin. So far they had only played classical music and she wanted to see what Mello thought of playing ragtime.

Mello studied the music for a moment before he said, "I have heard before."

"It was on the tape I gave you," Eira reminded him.

He nodded and set his hands on the keys. He stumbled a bit with the rhythms and the style was a little off, but Eira attributed that to his lack of familiarity with this type of music. Still, he wasn't bad and Eira was impressed with his sight reading. It seemed his father had taught him well, though Mello being a genius was probably helpful too.

"How long have you been playing?" Eira asked once he finished the piece.

Mello thought for a moment. "I was three years."

So he had started early. "Your father must have known the value of music."

Mello nodded.

"He must have known you were very smart, too," Eira prompted.

"He teach me because I can already read and often I am bored," Mello told her. "He plays for me and I say I want to play, so he teach me."

Eira smiled. Some parents had trouble with gifted children, especially ones as smart as Mello, Matt, and Near, but it seemed that rather than try to counter Mello's natural curiosity and desire to learn, his father had encouraged him. Matt had had his fair share of families that didn't know how to deal with a highly intelligent child and Eira thought to herself how much of a shame it was that there weren't more people like Mello's father. The picture the boy had begun to paint of the man was one of a kind and devoted parent who completely embraced his child's rare gift.

"I see," she said. "What about when you started school?"

"I still play," Mello said.

"How did you do in school?" Eira clarified.

"School is too easy," Mello said. "And I am bored, so my father teaches me other things."

"Like what?" Eira inquired.

"He teaches me Latin and English," Mello answered. Suddenly he grinned. "I come right back."

Before Eira could protest or ask where he was going, he was gone. True to his word, however, he was back in less than five minutes, this time with a large, black book in his hands. It wasn't until he settled once more on the piano bench that Eira got a good look at the cover. Imprinted there in gold letters were the words _Holy Bible_.

"My father give me this," Mello explained. He opened it to where a page was marked by a scarlet ribbon and turned it around so that Eira could see the text. It was a red letter edition King James Version bound in black leather with gold edged pages. It really was a beautiful book, but Eira wondered why Mello's father had given him a Bible written in Shakespearian English. Then she saw the other lines of text, written in blue and green ink in a child's hand.

Mello caught he expression and explained, "When I was gone, I tranlate."

"Translate," Eira corrected.

"Translate," Mello repeated, mimicking her accent. This had become the norm in their discussions. In addition to getting him to talk about his past, Eira was also helping him with his English. Right now they were still working on words; grammar would come later. Of course, she was also getting small lessons in Polish as a result, not that that was a bad thing.

Eira looked again at the hand written lines. The blue she recognized as Latin, since she knew a bit of the language herself, and the green must have been Polish, though she couldn't read any of it. Reading the language was completely different from speaking it.

"You translated all of this yourself?" she asked incredulously.

Mello nodded.

"But you didn't have any books to help you, did you?" she inquired.

"No," Mello answered. "So when I was in hospital I ask for books so I can check my translation."

Eira was stunned. "But this isn't in normal English. Many people who speak English have trouble with this."

Mello shrugged. "What else can I do? I cannot get out and I am scared all the time, so I ask God to protect me. I read the Bible so that I can be more close to God. So He save me."

"Can you read me something?" Eira asked. She was curious to hear Mello read the difficult text.

Mello nodded and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for and began to read. "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy places of the tabernacles of the most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her and that right early. The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved: he uttered his voice, the earth melted. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Come; behold the works of the Lord, what desolations He hath made in the earth. He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; He burneth the chariot in fire. Be still and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge."

Eira was stunned to hear him read. He only stumbled over a few of the more difficult words, though he read slowly and deliberately. "What verse is that?"

"Psalms forty six," Mello said. "It is my favourite."

"Why?" she asked.

The boy's expression grew suddenly solemn. "Because it mean that God save us no matter how bad things seem."

Eira nodded. She herself was an atheist, although she had been raised as a Christian. Still, it amazed her to see that kind of faith in such a young child.

"Do you know the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego?" Mello asked quietly.

"King Nebuchadnezzar had them thrown into a furnace for worshiping God," Eira replied. She knew the story from when she was a child.

Mello nodded. "I know this story well."

"Because God saved you just like He saved them?" Eira prompted.

Again Mello nodded.

Eira was silent. It was shocking to think of how similar Mello's plight had been to that of the men in the story. Mello credited God for saving him from Rostov. She watched Mello clasp his rosary and whisper something in Polish that she did not understand.

"Did your father give you that?" she asked, indicating the rosary.

Mello nodded. "It belong to my mother."

"What happened to your mother?" Eira asked gently.

"She die when I am born," Mello said. "My father always say she was like an angel. That is why he name me Mihael. After the archangel."

"I see," Eira said. "But from now on, Mihael, you cannot use that name. You are Mello."

"Why?" Mello asked.

Eira felt a pang of guilt at the boy's obvious distress. "Because that's just the way it has to be. For your safety. Not right now, but when you are older. When you leave this place. Many of the children here, when they graduate they take on jobs where letting people know their real names might put them at risk. So we give you a different name, that way not even the people here know your real name."

Mello nodded slowly and looked down at the Bible in his lap. He was silent for a long while before he closed the book, set it beside him on the bench, and asked, "Can I play _Tempest_ again?"

Eira nodded and handed him the music. As she watched him lose himself in the music, escaping everything that conspired to hurt him, she allowed herself to wonder what life had been like for him before. This little boy who had been through so much, what had he been like before? She could almost imagine him, a smiling young child, sitting next to a man who looked something like him at the piano, learning to play this song for the first time. It had been his father's favourite, he had said. She remembered her mother teaching her to play. The times they had spent together at the piano were some of her fondest memories of childhood. It seemed that perhaps the same was true for Mello.

And she thought about the Bible verse he had read to her. _God save us no matter how bad things seem._ Maybe that was what had allowed him to survive for so long under the conditions he had been kept in. He had faith that God would save him. And somehow he had managed to hold on to that faith even after he was freed only to find that his father had passed away. Perhaps he had held on to his faith because that was all he had left to cling to.

In silence she listened as the boy coaxed the beautiful melody from the instrument before him and she thought about how fitting the song was. The _Tempest Sonata_. How ironic that his father's favourite piece had reflected just what his son's life would become. But Mello had made it through the storm and now it was Eira's job to help him pick up the pieces, no matter how many they were or how sharp. And that was just what she intended to do.


	10. St Cyriacus of Iconium

**A/N:**Hola. Chapter 10. Well this took me a while to write. I've spent most of the past couple of days writing, working on various things. I had my wisdom teeth out yesterday, so I can't really talk right now. So I'm writing. Anywho, I should have pointed this out last time, but Nanairo, you're right about the name. On this chapter, a lot happens. Some of it seems kind of random, I know. I don't have much to say because it's two in the morning and I'm on drugs. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Nanairo Suishou and Kaze Kimizu for reviewing! Thanks for taking the time to read this and let me know how I'm doing!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

* * *

That night Mello's sleep was once again troubled by nightmares. Silently he tossed and turned, pale golden hair fanning out across his pillow like a halo glowing in the faint moonlight. But his dreams were far from angelic, far from heaven. What he dreamed of was hell on earth.

_The thin boy froze, afraid that he might attract attention to himself should the chain around his neck make any sound. As quietly as he could he sank back into the shadows, one hand grasping the crucifix whose chain hung around his neck just below the one that bound him. He sent up a silent plea for mercy to heaven and the God he could only hope was watching over him as he watched the man draw nearer. Narrow, dark eyes turned upon him and he felt a new wave of terror crash over him._

_The man drew closer and the boy drew further back into the shadows. One heavy footfall after another brought the man closer and the boy's fear grew. The man with the dully friendly features leaned down to grasp the boy's wrist and drag him out of the corner he was cowering in._

Mello woke screaming and immediately silenced himself. In desperation he clawed at his left wrist where the memory of that touch still lingered and his eyes caught on the scar that marred the pale skin on the back of his hand. It wasn't until he had clawed bloody lines into his skin that he finally calmed.

A shiver ran through his body as wide blue eyes took in the moonlight casting strange shadows around the room. Moonlight. An outside light source. He was safe. That was the reason he never closed the curtains; the light and the view of the woods and the moor assured him that he was safe. He was out. Still, he couldn't help but be nervous.

Mello knew the door would be locked, so he didn't try to open it. Instead he stayed where he was, pulling the covers over his shoulders as he stared out the window. The sheet was sticking to the bloody marks he had left on his wrist, but he paid it no mind. He had caused worse damage fighting that imagined grasp when he was back in the hospital in Poland. They had feared for his safety when they first brought him in, afraid that he might hurt himself in his nearly constant state of panic. It wasn't as bad now as it had been at first, but there were still the nightmares, the phantom memories just real enough to drag him back to that hell.

Mello had no intention of going back to sleep. He simply sat and stared out the window until the sun rose and someone came to unlock his door.

* * *

Just as Mello had expected, Eira asked about the marks on his arm during their session that afternoon. He had cleaned them himself, but didn't have anything to bandage them with. He still didn't trust the infirmary staff, so he had hidden the injury beneath the sleeves of an oversized shirt. It had only been visible when he pushed his sleeves out of his way as he sat at the piano.

"Mello, what happened to your arm?" Eira asked, reaching for the boy's wrist and taking note of the way he recoiled.

"It is nothing," Mello said quietly.

Eira studied his expression before asking, "Mello, did you do that to yourself?"

The boy spared her a brief glance before his gaze dropped back to the keys. "I dream."

"So you did do that?" Eira asked again.

"I dream," Mello repeated in a whisper. This time he didn't look up at all.

"I see," Eira said. The boy's answer had been as good as a yes. Besides, she had known to watch for this sort of thing. She was just relieved that the marks were on his arm rather than his neck as Tekla had told her they often were. "What do you dream about?"

"I do not want to talk," Mello said harshly.

"Alright," Eira said, backing off. Half of working with children like this was learning to choose your battles. Eating, for instance, was an issue Eira had pressed even when Mello fought her because she would not allow him to starve himself. Not that injuring himself was any less of a concern, but perhaps there was a better approach to this. "What happened to your hand?"

This time Mello looked up at her. He knew she meant the scar that marked the back of his left hand. "It does not matter."

"Yes it does," Eira insisted. "Someone hurt you. That matters."

Mello was surprised that she seemed so sure the scar was not accidental. Still, she was right. He muttered one word under his breath, his tone so dark that it seemed the word might be some deadly curse. "Rostov."

"Rostov did that to you?" Eira asked.

Mello nodded.

"Why?" she questioned.

"Because I become boring," Mello said coldly.

The woman hardly kept from flinching. She already knew what the man had done to the boys he kept as prisoners, knew they were tortured and starved, but to hear it from the victim just made it more real. Too real. "Is that what you dream about?"

Mello's eyes narrowed at the question. "I do not want to talk."

"What did he do to your hand?" she pressed. Mello had a feral gleam in his eyes as though he might attack her, but she would not let up.

"I become boring," Mello repeated. The next bit was spat as though the words themselves were poisonous. "He cuts my hand and he burns me."

"To make you react," Eira guessed.

Mello nodded, icy blue eyes still narrowed.

"You still dream about it," Eira said.

"I do not want to talk," Mello repeated for a third time.

"He grabbed your wrist," the councillor continued. "That's why you flinched. That's why you scratched your arm until it bled. You were dreaming about when that happened, weren't you?"

"Enough!" Mello roared. He rose, fists clenched and hands trembling and for a moment Eira thought he would strike her, but he simply stormed out of the room.

Mello slammed the door to his room so hard that it rattled. He could feel the adrenaline in his veins. It was bad enough having to dream about his captivity at night without it plaguing him during the day too. He had dreamed about when Rostov had cut his hand and burned him for the sake of entertainment, simply to make him react, but Mello was more bothered by the fact that the councillor woman could read him so easily. What Rostov had done was in the past. Eira was here and now. She was a threat.

The thin blonde started at the sound of a quiet knock on the door. He didn't reply; he didn't need to. He couldn't lock the door from the inside. Slowly the door opened to reveal the old nurse from the infirmary.

"Hello dearie," she said with a warm smile. "I was just up here to see Near and Eira mentioned that I should stop by. She said you'd gotten hurt."

Mello just watched her with narrowed eyes. He had only understood about half of what she said because, unlike Eira, this woman didn't bother to slow down when she spoke to him.

"Let me see your arm, dear," she said gently.

Mello hesitated. He didn't trust this woman. She had drugged him, after all.

"I only want to look," she said slowly. "I won't touch unless you let me."

Mello nodded to show that he understood and pulled back his sleeve to reveal the angry red marks. They had scabbed over and they didn't look as bad now as they had when they were still bleeding.

"We should put something over those to keep them clean," she said.

Mello glared at her. "No."

Anne sighed. "If I help you wrap that yourself, will you do that?"

Mello studied her for a second before nodding.

The woman vanished and Mello waited until her footsteps had faded before creeping out of the room. But it seemed that he had not gone completely unnoticed. A pair of grey eyes watched him from a doorway on the opposite side of the hall. The blonde froze under the unfamiliar gaze, watching the child watching him.

"Anne won't hurt you," the boy said finally. He spoke slowly, as though he knew Mello would not understand.

"Lies," Mello hissed, eyes narrowed. This child was strange. He was small and his hair was white and his dull grey eyes stared with an intensity that was unnerving. Mello found himself disliking the boy already.

The boy shook his head, his snowy curls swaying lightly.

But Mello didn't reply. The sound of footsteps echoed from the next hall and Mello realized he had missed his chance to get away. Frantically he took off down the hall, looking for a place to hide until the danger had passed, but he found nothing. He watched the old woman reappear, watched her come closer and cringed at the idea that he was cornered. But she didn't hurt him, or even try to touch him. She simply handed him a roll of gauze and helped him wrap his wrist with it.

"That bite mark's looking a bit better," she commented as she caught a glimpse of the tooth marks Mello had left trying to silence himself the first night he was here. Finally they finished with the gauze. "There now, that's not so bad."

Mello didn't respond, just watched her watching him until she seemed to give up. At least she had seen to the scratches.

Once she was out of sight, Mello allowed his gaze to settle once more on the boy who stood watching him from the doorway.

"You're the one who screams at night," the boy said blankly. His grey eyes seemed almost sad. "The place you came from must have been terrible."

"Shut up," Mello barked, reverting to Polish in his frustration.

"I'm afraid I didn't understand that," the boy droned. "Your name is Mello, is it not?"

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Mello snarled.

"I still didn't understand that," the white haired boy said calmly. His unshakable disposition was irritating to the irate blonde. "I'm Near. I think you've already met Matt."

"I do not want to know your name!" Mello shouted at him before retreating once more to his room where he curled up on the floor with his back against the closed door. He didn't want to know anyone's name. He just wanted them to leave him alone. He didn't want to talk about his captivity, either. Talking about his father was one thing, talking about Rostov was something completely different.

Weakly he scratched at his neck. He could feel the weight of the collar there. It was suffocating and he wanted it gone. Even if it wasn't really there, he wanted it gone. In reality, he would never be rid of it, just like he would never be rid of the scar that marred the back of his hand. He would never be rid of any of it. Always he would be resigned to living in a nightmare from which he could not wake. He shivered as a small, desperate whimper escaped his throat. Where did he go from here?


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Hola. Chapter 11. Sorry this has taken so long! I'm at home for the summer, so my writing has died. Also, please forgive (or, preferably, point out) any mistakes in this chapter. It hasn't been proof-read. I knew I wouldn't get it posted today if I put it off. This is my birthday present to myself. But on the chapter itself, I wanted to redeem Eira a bit. Also, Bez Dogmatu is, in English, Without Dogma. I only kept the title in Polish to emphasize that the book is in Polish. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Kaze Kimizu and Nanairo Suishou for reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

No one saw the blonde for three days after that incident. At least, no one who was willing to comment on having seen him. Mello knew he had been spotted at least once by the freakish kid with the white hair. At some level he supposed he was grateful to the kid for not mentioning it – he had actually heard him tell the caretaker he had not seen the blonde – but he still found himself resenting the boy. Because he had realized how scared Mello was. Because he had realized Mello could not speak English well. Because he had told Mello his name. All of it made the blonde wary of him.

It was the morning of the third day when Eira came to see him. He was already awake, although it would be more accurate to say he hadn't slept. He heard the footsteps in the hall, heard the knocking on the door, and chose to ignore it all.

"Mello," Eira called gently from the other side of the door. "May I come in?"

She received no answer and so cautiously opened the door.

"I have something for you," she said, ignoring the fact that Mello, who was crouched on the window sill with the morning sun casting an odd glow about his golden hair, was staring daggers at her. Without waiting for a response from the boy, she reached into her bag and pulled out a book. In silence she held it out so that Mello could read the title. _Bez Dogmatu_by Henryk Sienkiewicz.

The blonde boy glanced up at her with mild surprise. He had, of course, heard of Henryk Sienkiewicz and had read three of his other novels; this was something he had once mentioned to the councillor. What really surprised him about the book was that it was still in its original Polish and he wondered briefly where in England she had found such a thing.

When he made no move to take the book Eira edged a little closer. At first Mello's icy blue eyes narrowed, but after a moment he reached out and took the book from her.

"Thank you," he said gruffly.

Eira watched as he examined the book, holding it in both hands and skimming the first few pages as though to assure himself that it was in Polish. Finally he looked back up at her.

"Why?" he asked.

Eira smiled. "It'll give you something to do. I know you haven't really been out of here much the past few days and I figure that's my fault. So I thought you might be bored."

Mello narrowed his eyes again and cocked his head to the side. For a moment he watched her in this manner, then he cast another brief glance at the book. "It is in Polish."

"You speak Polish," Eira said.

"I speak English and Latin," Mello replied, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"You came from Poland," Eira said.

Mello nodded.

"I figured it would be nice to see your own language," the councillor reasoned. "You seemed like you might be home sick."

Mello considered her briefly before he answered in a low voice. "Thank you."

Eira nodded before leaving. Mello watched her close the door and wondered at the fact that she had not asked him to talk. Not about his father or the hospital or Rostov or any of it. Nothing. She had simply given him the book and gone away. That was that and Mello found himself wondering why. Obviously she had gone through more than the usual trouble to find this for him, so why had she not asked anything in return? No questions, no tactics, just a gift and Mello couldn't figure out why.

The music he understood. She had used that to get him to talk. Mello had realized what she was doing from the moment she told him Tekla had said he liked classical music, but he hadn't minded. All she had questioned him about then was Tekla and his father and while his father was still something of a sensitive subject Mello didn't mind talking about him. His father he could talk about, because life with his father was anything but hell. Much unlike life with Rostov. But it wouldn't do to dwell on that.

Quietly he skimmed the summary on the back of the book. _Bez Dogmatu_. It was about a man at odds with himself. At odds with the world. It sounded interesting. After a brief glance out at the lightening sky he turned to the first page and began to read.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Hola. Chapter 12. Why is it that whenever I say I'm putting something on hiatus I end up updating it almost immediately? Anyway, this chapter's kind of short. I've been listening to Breaking Benjamin all day and I really want to write a Mello/Near fic based on Follow. Sorry, kinda random. Anyway, a request for help. Does anyone have an idea for a theme for the chapter titles for this? That's about it. On with the chapter.

Thank you to Rim Greaper, Kaze Kimizu, Lae D Snowflake, I Break for Bishounen Boys (I love your username!), Anna Raffaella, and merichuel for reviewing! And Anna, you're right about the name.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

* * *

Mello did not leave his room until late that night. The moonlight cast an eerie glow over everything it touched, over the moors and the halls, turning the dark polished wood to shinning shadows and gleaming silver. In the semi-dark the child crept in silence down to where he knew the kitchen would be. He hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday, so he felt the trip was justifiable.

When he reached the kitchen he was surprised to see a plate sitting on the counter with an apple, a pear, and bunch of grapes on it. Eira's doing, no doubt. He would have to face the woman again sometime. Quietly he took the plate and crept back to his room with it. He didn't want to be out in the open any longer than he had to be. It was when he was about halfway back to his room that he ran into something interesting.

As Mello passed a recess at the top of the stairs he thought he saw something move in the shadows. Cautiously he set down the plate he was carrying on the top step, aware as always that he should not waste a chance to eat. Like a blonde panther the child stole toward the darkness gathered at the corner of the wall. As he got closer there was movement again and another child appeared before him.

Mello recognized the boy's red hair and green eyes. The name Matt came to him immediately and he tried to chase it away. He didn't want to know. He was certain it would haunt him later. But what really caught his attention was the boy's expression. The forlorn look about him, the utter hopelessness in his eyes. Mello inhaled sharply. He knew that look. Then the boy spoke.

"What are you doing here?" the red haired child asked softly.

Mello stared at him for a moment. "I could ask you same thing?"

"Couldn't sleep," the boy shrugged. "What about you?"

"Same," Mello grunted.

"Nightmares?" the other boy asked.

Mello's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he nodded. "You have nightmares?"

"Nah," Matt shook his head. He seemed to be looking through the blonde rather than at him. "Just too much to think about."

Mello nodded curtly to show he understood.

Matt sighed and brought his focus back to the boy before him, though he was obviously still distracted. "You planning to go back to sleep?"

Mello shook his head.

"Wanna stay here with me?" the boy asked. It was both an invitation and a plea, as though he didn't want to be left alone with his thoughts anymore. Mello would have felt sorry for him if he had allowed himself to show sympathy. After all the death he had seen, he no longer allowed himself to show pity or mercy. Still he nodded.

The boy gave a weak smile. "Thanks. You're name. It's Mello, right?"

Again Mello nodded.

"You were carrying something when you came up the stairs," Matt pointed out.

Mello stiffened at this.

"Don't worry," Matt said. "I won't take it. Just reminding you."

Mello watched him for a moment before retrieving the plate of fruit Eira had left for him. Matt smiled when he saw what it was.

"You like fruit?" Matt asked as they settled on the floor across from each other. It was a lame effort at conversation, but it was better than awkward silence.

"I can eat," Mello said, as though the question of whether or not he actually liked it was not valid. Matt had gone hungry enough times that he could understand the sentiment.

"If I was going to raid the kitchen I'd rather have a cheeseburger," Matt mused.

Mello's eyes narrowed again. "Cheeseburger is meat," Mello pointed out in what could only be described as a venomous hiss.

"Yeah," Matt said, clearly amused. "You don't eat meat?"

Mello shook his head in an almost violent manner.

"Vegetarian?" Matt guessed.

Again Mello shook his head. "Bad things are in meat."

Matt tilted his head and gave him a confused look. He had no idea what he meant.

Mello, however, regarded the gesture the same way he would have during his captivity. If the other children didn't know, he wouldn't burden them with the knowledge. Let them have their illusions. He simply shook his head.

Matt took the dismissal without question. "Where did you come from?"

Now it was Mello's turn to look puzzled.

"You're accent," Matt said. "It isn't British and it definitely isn't American. Where are you from?"

"Poland," Mello said.

Matt looked thoughtful. "What's it like there?"

Mello studied him for a moment before replying, "I miss."

"I understand," Matt said. "I miss America sometimes. England still seems foreign, even though I've been here for six months already."

This time Mello really looked surprised. Matt could tell the expression was genuine and he gave a soft, friendly chuckle. "I'm not from here. I'm sure you noticed I don't sound like the staff."

In truth Mello had noticed, but he hadn't really thought about it. But he had another question in mind. "Why you here?"

The smile immediately disappeared from Matt's face and he looked down at the floor. "My parents… I… I don't have a home."

Mello nodded in understanding. "My parents are dead."

"I'm sorry," Matt said softly. There was honesty in his tone that made him seem older than he was. After a long silence the redhead got up and walked to a window farther down the hall. "It's after four," he announced when he returned. "We should get back to our rooms."

Mello nodded in agreement and followed the younger boy toward their hall.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:**Hola! I liiiiive! -runs around dorm pretending to be a zombie- So this has only taken me a month and a half to update. In that time I've written another chapter or four of my novel and started four new original stories, one of which is supposed to be a webcomic except that I lack any sort of artistic tallent. Two months have passed in the story. As such, Mello's English has improved, but he still makes mistakes. I'll bet you can see where I left off writing this more than a month ago. I read back over this section and was like, "Crap! What was Matt looking for again?" Yay! I have skills. Anyway, thank you sooooo much for your patience. On with the chapter!

Thank you to I Break for Bishounen Boys, C Elise, cratermaker, merichuel, Kaze Kimizu, and Anna Raffaella for reviewing! Also, thank you to Anna for the suggestion of types of butterflies for the chapter titles. I'll finish retitling them eventually. I may yet look up saints, though... We'll see.

**Disclaimer:** I would love to say that in my ridiculously long absence I have been off acquiring Death Note, but alas, that would be a lie.

* * *

Before it occurred to Mello to start keeping track, two months had passed. The days and nights had slipped by largely unnoticed. Most days he talked to Eira and some days he talked to Matt. Every day he went down to the music room with the sheet music Eira had given him and played the _Tempest Sonata _and whatever else it occurred to him to play. On two occasions he gathered the courage to eat in the dining hall with the other children, though he still refused to eat meat. His English had improved greatly, though he still reverted to Polish in times of great stress or frustration and Latin when he was afraid. He had finished _Bez Dogmatu_ and read his Bible cover to cover three times. The scratches on his wrist had healed and the bite mark on his arm didn't look as bad, though he knew it would leave a permanent scar. The weather had begun to grow cold and the trees had turned brilliant shades of orange, yellow, and red. And slowly but surely he was beginning to feel comfortable here. Not quite safe, but not always scared anymore.

But it didn't occur to Mello just how much time had passed until he noticed his hair in the bathroom mirror one day as he was washing his hands. It had gotten ridiculously long and was now well past his shoulders. He looked like a girl. The boy scowled at that thought and resolved to fix the problem. It didn't take him long to find scissors and in no time he had his hair back to a manageable length.

The trouble with this, he soon found out, was that he had cut it without a mirror. He knew as soon as he reached the music room where Eira was waiting that all had not gone as planned. He scowled slightly as the councillor swallowed a laugh.

"Was your hair bothering you, Mello?" Eira asked in a teasing tone.

"Yes," the boy answered matter-of-factly. "What is wrong with it?"

This time Eira did laugh. "You didn't use a mirror, did you?"

"No," Mello said. "You know I do not like mirrors."

"Come on," Eira said, rising from her seat on the piano bench. "Let's go to my office and fix this."

Mello sighed softly and followed the woman through the maze of hallways and staircases back to her office. Once they reached it she sat Mello down in the wooden desk chair, as it would be the easiest to clean, and found a long strip of scrap fabric that she wound around the boy's shoulders. She then moved to her desk, taking out a pair of scissors and a compact. Without a word she held up the small mirror so that Mello could see his hair.

The boy cringed. Now he understood why the woman had laughed. His hair looked terrible. It wasn't even close to being even. The woman chattered pleasantly as she set to work. It wasn't until she was almost done that she asked a question Mello felt compelled to answer.

"You've never told me," Eira said, her tone making it clear to the boy that she was trying to sneak in a question better left out of light-hearted conversation. "Why don't you like mirrors?"

Mello tensed at the question. "I look like them."

Eira finished up with the last couple of snips and pulled the cloth from his shoulders. She would have to vacuum up all the hair clippings later, but she needed to vacuum anyway. "What do you mean?"

"The others," Mello said softly.

Eira frowned. This was clearly related to Rostov. The boy still hadn't told her much about his captivity, but she didn't press the matter. It was more important to gain his trust and show him he had someone he could turn to. Eventually he would open up. "The other boys Rostov kept?"

Mello nodded. An image of Number Twelve laughing shortly before his death surfaced in his mind and he fought down the rising wave of nausea.

"I can see how that would make it difficult," Eira said.

The boy studied her for a moment before nodding. She knew she had pushed him enough, so she didn't pursue the matter any farther. There were a few more moments of silence before Mello spoke again.

"I have to go," he said. "I told Matt I would have lunch with him. Thank you."

Eira smiled. She was glad to hear the boy had plans. The fact that he had bonded with Matt meant he was healing. "No problem."

Mello gave her a respectful nod before leaving the room. He knew that Matt wouldn't expect him to go down to the dining room for lunch the way the redhead did. The younger boy had picked up on his extreme antisocial tendencies. He had also picked up on the fact that Mello would not eat anything that might possibly contain meat, though he still didn't really understand it.

When Mello reached Matt's room the redhead was sitting cross-legged on the floor, gameboy in hand. It had been a birthday present, one of the few Matt had ever received. From what Mello understood, ever since he had gotten it he hardly put it down.

"Hey Mello," the boy said greeted, pausing his game.

There were two plates sitting on the floor. Both of them held nothing but fruits and vegetables. Mello gave a slight smile at the thought that Matt valued his company enough to alter his eating habits so that they could share a meal. There was also the fact that Matt had not questioned the older boy's objection to certain foods since that night a little more than two months prior.

"Hello. What game are you playing?" the blonde said. His tone was friendly even if his eyes seemed cold and his words sounded sharp with his accent.

"Mario," Matt said. "Your hair's short."

Mello nodded. "It was too long."

Matt chuckled. "It was getting kinda long. Oh! Hang on a sec. I've got something I want you to see."

Mello waited patiently while Matt rummaged through the disaster under his bed. It seemed to be taking him forever to find whatever it was he was looking for. With a sound of triumph he pulled a notebook from the mess.

"I thought since you're my best friend and all maybe I would show you this," Matt said. He seemed hesitant and it made Mello wonder just what was significant about the notebook. "I... haven't ever shown this to anyone else."

Mello nodded in acknowledgement and waited patiently as Matt opened it and flipped through pages. All of them were covered in writing, most much more childish than Mello could ever remember his being. The short phrases he could pick out read the same way he spoke. Short and broken and uncertain.

The blonde glanced up to study the gamer's expression and was mildly surprised to see the other boy studying him. Quietly he asked, "What is this?"

"It's... kind of a journal," Matt said shyly. "I mean, it isn't anything spectacular. I can't really read and write very well, but I try. But here." He indicated a page at the back of the note book. "This is what I wanted to show you."

Mello found himself looking at a list of some sort. It looked like names or maybe places or possibly both. But that didn't make it any clearer what it was. The puzzled look he gave the gamer apparently made that clear enough.

"It's a list of all the families I've lived with and all the orphanages I've been in," Matt explained quietly. "And the cities I've been to."

The Polish boy took all of this in with a slow, thorough, precision that ensured he fully understood what he was being told. He kept his expression carefully blank as he considered this. And then, after a few moments of silence, he spoke, his accent so thick and his voice so quiet that Matt almost couldn't understand him.

"Come. I show you something."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Hola! New chapter after forever and a half. Six months, actually, almost to the day. I was finally able to find a decent listing of the saints, so I'm redoing chapter titles. I'll probably play with them throughout the story. I almost need to have the whole thing written out to title anything. Sorry if this is a little strange, too. Also, I changed the end of the last chapter so Matt doesn't seem quite as weird. That's all. Onward!

Thank you to Anna Raffaella, merichuel, I Break For Bishonen Boys, XyaoiXstoryXfangirlX, cratermaker, Nanairo Suishou, and caveat lector for reviewing.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

* * *

Early evening found both boys sitting in the music room. Mello was seated at the piano while Matt had curled up in a chair nearby. The redhead watched, fascinated, as Mello's fingers danced across the keys, coaxing a sad, beautiful melody from the instrument. He had seen people play before, but never really watched. And the change in the other boy was astounding. The Mello he knew was guarded and watchful, always giving the impression that he was hiding something. The boy before him now was something completely different. Matt watched as emotions flowed freely across his fair face, the story of the music shining in his ice blue eyes. The feral boy he was so familiar with had vanished the moment his fingers touched the keys and had been replaced with this creature he could only call beautiful.

It bothered him, that thought, but he shoved it away. Only a few moments later the song ended and Mello looked over at him. The spell had been broken when the last note had ended and the emotion was gone from his eyes. He simply stared in blank expectancy, waiting for Matt to speak.

"Wow," was all Matt could manage. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"My father teached me," Mello replied.

Matt was silent, thinking. He wasn't sure what to say to that. "You play very well."

Mello grinned sadly. "Eira gave me music so that I can play. I play much."

Again Matt was quiet. He wanted to ask questions, but he didn't want the kid to shut down like he had numerous times before. So he took what he had learned and filed it away for later. But Mello was quite obviously done playing and done speaking, so Matt had another idea. Mostly it was because he hated the silence and didn't want to just sit here.

"Come on," the redhead said. "Let's go up to the library."

Mello glanced down at the keys for a moment, gaze lingering as old memories played out in his head, then he nodded and followed the younger boy from the room.

* * *

That evening Mello sat quietly on his bed in the semi-darkness, just thinking. It was something he had normally avoided. But over the past few months something had changed. No longer was he overwhelmed by the faces of his past, by the screaming and the pleading and the pain and all of the other things he didn't want to remember. Instead, there was quiet. If not quiet, then soft laughter. Laughter tinted with fear, as though the boy it came from feared he would be hit just for smiling. And in place of the terrified pale faces, set with frightened blue eyes and framed with golden blonde hair, there were freckles and goggles and copper. Instead of anguish there was quiet hesitance. Instead of pleas to be saved, there was a realization that no one was coming. Instead of the numbers, there was Matt.

It was odd, that change, and it took Mello by surprise. While not exactly frightening, it was a least a bit disturbing. He had begun to rely on someone else. He couldn't risk that and he knew it. Then again, it had been Matt who had clung to him, not the other way around. Mello had merely been stupid enough to let him stay. Matt was the one who had needed to be saved, Mello had merely been foolish enough to oblige. And yet Mello couldn't be angry with himself about it. He had begun keeping track of all of the children here, assigning them numbers, and in the time he had been here none of them had gone missing. That meant that there was a possibility this place actually was safe.

Quietly the boy moved to curl up on his side, turning his head so that he could stare at the moon through the window. Memories of before played in his head as he stared. Memories of sitting at his father's side at the piano. He remembered his father's hands, how they were big and strong when the man would pick him up. He remembered that they were smooth, not callused like his own had been, and always stained with ink. He remembered how his father always smelled like coffee and old books. That scent was comforting to him because it brought back memories of when the world was safe. He remembered his father's voice, kind and low and expressive. He could remember, if only faintly, his father reading bible stories to him when he was very young and he remembered how his father's voice had told the stories almost as well as the words.

He remembered school. The blur of faces of all the other children. He couldn't remember any of them as individuals. He hadn't paid them much mind. School was boring and all that remained in his memory was the blur of young faces and the drone of dull voices. He remembered learning geography and spelling and arithmetic and all of the things his father had begun to teach him already. He remembered how when he was at school he would pass the time by reciting anything he could in Latin. Sometimes he would translate the lesson as the teacher lectured. Sometimes he wrote down what they said in Latin. Sometimes he just translated the textbook. He remembered one of the teachers yelling at him for that. She had claimed that he wasn't paying attention. When he pointed out that his notebook was filled not with nonsense but a Latin translation of the text she had been talking about she had questioned him. When he said it helped him both with learning the history she was teaching him and the Latin his father was teaching she left him alone. School had never been a good place for him.

He could remember going into Olsztyn sometimes because that was where the university his father taught at was. The drive from Olsztynek to Olsztyn with the breeze in the window and classical music on the radio. He could remember the university as clearly as if he had been there that day. He remembered the musty smell of the library and the cluttered comfort of his father's office. He remembered how there had been a stack of books in the corner just for him. He remembered one of the piano professors listening to him play once, critiquing him. He remembered meeting students.

He had tried to block out some of his memories of Olsztyn, though. They frightened him. He could remember getting lost. He remembered the man in the long coat, the one with the briefcase. The boy shot up, shaking his head. He didn't want remember that. Instead he forced his mind back to the university students. He could see them clearly. He could hear them talking and he could hear his father's voice as well. After a moment it occurred to him that the Polish sounded odd in his mind. He had spoken only English for so long now that his native language had begun to sound unfamiliar. It seemed as though it belonged only in memories and that thought made him lonely.

In silence he fished the copy of Bez Dogmatuthat Eira had given him from under his pillow. Perhaps tomorrow he could read some of it to Matt. The redhead wouldn't understand it, but Mello could translate for him. Besides, Matt had suggested they go to the library together and work on their reading. More likely Matt would be working on his reading and Mello would work on his speaking. Matt only read at a fourth grade level, and while that was a vast improvement from when he had arrived it was still far behind where a Wammy's student his age should have been. Mello, on the other hand, could read and comprehend almost anything, but his spoken English still sounded broken and childish.

With his thoughts firmly anchored on the approach of the coming day and his plans for it, Mello lay back down, staring at the cover of the book in his hands. The words felt familiar but there was a strangeness to them that gnawed at the edges of his mind as he began to drift to sleep. And instead of frightened blue eyes he could see orange tinted green as children's voices filled his head just as they did most every night.


	15. Author's Note

Hola,  
Not an update. Just a note. Don't get too excited, you'll be angry with me after this. Or maybe not. I have plans for the Wammy's Boy's series. (Inequity, Anomaly, Lost, and Fallen.) I'm rewriting them.  
What prompted this you ask? Ok, so no one asked, but I'm answering anyway. Reading Another Note. There are some interesting things there. And since I want these to be as close to cannon as possible, I want to take everything into account. L's story, Inequity, will have the most work done to it. The other three will probably just be touch up and maybe some work on flow. L's I'm scrapping and starting over.  
Also, I'm adding a fifth story. I don't know what the title will be, but it will follow B. He's fascinating, probably because he's so deeply disturbed, and I really want a chance to play with him. So I'll be working that in too.  
So as it stands it'll go Inequity (L), (B), Anomaly (N), Lost (M2), Fallen (M). Hopefully you're not all going to eat me after reading this. I'll probably do the editing in chronological order to try to keep everything more organized.  
That's it for now.  
Jya ne,  
Lily


End file.
